


and the words will fall like teeth

by sraye96



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Body Horror, Nightmares, Teeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23203303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sraye96/pseuds/sraye96
Summary: Beverly sends him a secret smile, anI-know-you-love-him-and-it’s-so-funny-because-this-is-what-does-it-for-you-really?look, and he can feel his cheeks heat up. Thankfully Eddie is too busy chopping through the air with his hand to notice the people he'shealth-ing at are not listening to him at all, too focused on the silent conversation they're engaged in. "And your fucking teeth can rot in your mouth. Like straight up rot. And then they’ll fall out, but not before they infect your gums and give you cancer and fucking kill you. Do you hear me, Richie? You'll die. Is that what you want? Both of you fucking pay attention to me, I'm trying to warn you about the dangers of smoking!"
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	and the words will fall like teeth

**Author's Note:**

> ever had the tooth dream? if you have it, you know what I'm talking about. well I had it recently and I cope with most things by writing, so here's poor Richie having the tooth dream

Richie sighs at his reflection in the mirror, poking at a new zit that's cropped up on his upper lip miraculously overnight. It's fucking  _ huge _ and sore to the touch and he has half a mind to pop the goddamn thing right then. If he has time after he gets ready for school, he just might. 

He gives it one last poke before yanking his tooth brush free from the cup holding it. Brushing his teeth is fucking annoying and he hates that he has to do it every day,  _ multiple times a day _ , but he hates it even more now that he pulls his lips back to reveal his ugly, massive braces silently,  _ painfully _ pulling his teeth in place to help make his buckteeth less stupid — if that's even possible. 

There's so many more places for germs and plaque to hide now with all the metal and cement in his mouth; at least, that's what Eddie and his dad say. His dad should know, he's a fucking dentist, but Eddie is just a goddamn nerd who took all his dad's stupid lectures about teeth cleaning to heart. Poor little germaphobe didn't even realize his dad was trying to scare him into brushing his teeth more often and thought it was some kind of tooth gospel. 

He snorts at the idea of tooth gospel and makes a note to tell Eddie that later. He won’t think it’s funny at all, but he’ll roll his eyes and give him that judgemental look he reserves for Richie. That look that makes his stomach do somersaults and his heart beat fast and his palms sweaty.

He starts brushing his teeth to distract himself from that line of thinking. The taste of mint in his mouth makes him gag. Mint gum is fine and all, but tooth paste is like mint jacked up on steroids right after the gym — it's too much and overwhelming and he hates it. 

After he's done, he takes another look at the massive zit and grimaces at it, but decides it can stay there since it's not like his whole face isn't already covered in them. Puberty fucking  _ sucks _ . Who wants to be fifteen and, like, six inches taller than all his friends if he also has to have a pizza face and kind of sort of smell like a trashcan from massive amounts of BO that sticks around no matter how much deodorant he uses? 

Whatever. He throws on the best smelling shirts hanging off the back of his desk chair in his room, then finds one of his  _ actually _ clean Hawaiian shirts to go over it. His jeans are on the floor, but he's only worn them, like, four times and hasn't spilled anything on them yet, so they're  _ technically _ clean, right? There's rips in the knees from the last time he hightailed it and ate shit running away from whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is that started beating his ass after Bowers went to the asylum and all his little friends died. 

Does he know how they died? Richie feels like he should, like he does, like maybe he was even  _ there _ , but he can't quite remember at the moment. It must not have been that important then.

He doesn't have time to worry about it though, so he pulls on his ratty black chucks that look like clown shoes since he’s got such big fucking feet and grabs his backpack before bolting out of the room. If he wants to meet up Eddie before his mom demands he let her drive him to school, he has to leave  _ now _ . He shouts a quick goodbye to his mom as he runs through the living room and through the door, only catching her shouting, 'be caref—’ before the door slams shut behind him. His bike is laying at the foot of their porch where he threw it the night before after getting back from the clubhouse, so he rights it and hops on, pedaling hard and fast to make it to Eddie's. 

Fuck this day entirely though because just as he makes it to their street, he sees Sonia’s sensible minivan backing out of their driveway. Eddie is scowling out the window. He doesn't see Richie thankfully, but Richie sees him and curses as he watches the car drive away. 

Fuck Mondays man. Fuck them in the ass. 

The rest of the bike ride to school is shitty, like everything else this morning, but at least he's not hauling ass anymore. By the time he gets there, he's soaked in sweat and the rest of the Losers are already crowding around Bill's locker. Figures he would be the last one there. As if the day wasn't shitty enough, he's missing prime Losers Club time too. 

"Hey guys!" He calls, waving as soon as he sees them. They aren't exactly within earshot, not if he had been talking at a normal speaking voice, but lucky for him his normal speaking voice is too loud anyway and they hear him. Beverly gives him a smile, Eddie looks sheepish at having missed their morning ride together, Mike waves back and — 

When did Mike start going to school with them? Isn't he homeschooled? He frowns, but shakes his head. He must be misremembering things. Mike is standing there in front of him, so he's probably just still sleepy or something. It’s just a bad, weird morning is all. 

"R-Richie!" Bill waves now too, but he's frowning. "You're l-l-late."

He wants to seem nonchalant, even if they can all see the sweat stains on his t-shirt, so he shrugs. "Bell hasn't rang yet, Big Bill."

Bill shakes his head. "N-no! We had a Losers C-Club meeting this m-m-morning, remember?"

No, he sure fucking didn't remember. "Oh. I'm sorry, man. It slipped my mind."

"Yeah, wh-whatever." Bill shoves past him and Mike trails behind him, giving them an apologetic smile as he leaves. 

Well, that was fucking weird. So weird, in fact, that he expresses that sentiment out loud. Eddie snorts. "I think he's just in a mood. You know how he gets." No, not really. Bill doesn't ever get like that, but Eddie doesn't seem worried and he's perpetually worried about everything, so it's probably fine. 

"Want to go smoke before class?" Beverly asks, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

Man, does he love Beverly Marsh or what. "Fuck yeah I do, Big Red. Let's fucking go." The two of them start towards the doors. 

"Richie!" Eddie huffs, keeping up with them. Stan and Ben give halfhearted waves, not interrupting their conversation to even bother to say hi to Richie. Weird again, but this whole fucking morning has sucked so far, so he doesn't think too hard on it. "Smoking is so bad for you. You guys know that. I tell you constantly. Why do you insist on giving yourselves lung cancer? Are you stupid or something?" He's lecturing them, but that’s normal. One of the only normal things that has happened all morning. He always gives them shit when they smoke but he'll keep them company anyway. "You two are going to smoke yourselves into an early grave."

"Probably." Beverly says, grinning over her shoulder. "Make sure I have a good funeral, alright, Eds?"

"Fuck you, Bev. You're just as bad as him!" He jabs a finger at Richie, who can't help but laugh. 

Maybe fuck most of this Monday, but at least this part of his morning will be nice. A quick smoke before biology might make it easier to survive the mind numbing teachers droning on until lunch. Eddie starts rambling off statistics of all the diseases they're going to get from the cigarettes Beverly produces from her backpack, but they tune most of it out and light them anyway. His health ramblings are the background noise to most Losers outings anyway, so they're pretty used to it. 

Beverly sends him a secret smile, an  _ I-know-you-love-him-and-it’s-so-funny-because-this-is-what-does-it-for-you-really? _ look, and he can feel his cheeks heat up. Thankfully Eddie is too busy chopping through the air with his hand to notice the people he's  _ health- _ ing at are not listening to him at all, too focused on the silent conversation they're engaged in. "And your fucking teeth can rot in your mouth. Like straight up rot. And then they’ll fall out, but not before they infect your gums and give you cancer and fucking kill you. Do you hear me, Richie? You'll die. Is that what you want? Both of you fucking pay attention to me, I'm trying to warn you about the dangers of smoking!" 

They glance at each other again, then burst into laughter. Eddie keeps yelling at them. It's a nice break from the shit show that puberty has made his life. 

But the bell rings and they snub their cigarettes, tossing the butts onto the ground. "See you in geometry!" He shouts to Beverly as she runs towards her classroom. She waves over her shoulder, then he holds his elbow out to Eddie. "Well, ol' chap—”

"It's too fucking early for the British Guy Voice, Richie." Eddie sighs, his hands on his hips. He sounds disapproving, but he's smiling and it's so fucking fond. Richie knows he secretly thinks he's getting better at his Voices — and he is! — and that he's proud of him, even if he bitches more than ever compliments then. 

"May I escort you to biology?" He finishes, grinning down at Eddie. Okay, score one for Richie's puberty actually. He's a whopping six-foot-one and counting, but Eddie hasn't hit a growth spurt yet, so he's barely five-foot-three. Looking down at Eddie is the only good thing that's come out of all these awful body changes. 

Eddie giggles in spite of himself. "Sure. Fine." They link arms and head towards their classroom. 

Weird, usually Eddie would shove him away and call him a name, but walk with him anyway. Maybe he's having a good Monday. If all Richie's good vibes have gone to him, at least they're being put to good use. Better use than wasting them on him anyway. 

They hunker down at their table in the back of the class. Mr. Gardener takes roll and as soon as it's done, they stop paying attention. He gave up calling on Richie to embarrass him for not paying attention since Richie tends to get the right answer anyway and Eddie had an asthma attack on the first day of class— 

Does Eddie have asthma? No, right? It's something else... Right? He should know that. This isn't like not remembering something about Bowers or accidentally forgetting his friend went to their school now or even Bill acting weird on a Monday. This is  _ Eddie _ he's talking about now. He knows everything about him.

Fuck this Monday and fuck puberty because apparently its giving him memory loss or something.

Whatever it is, little shit wheezed up a storm and scared their teacher shitless. He won't even call on Eddie if he's the only one with his hand raised now, too scared to have a repeat of that and have to deal with it. It's kind of fucking hysterical and Richie will never let him live it down. 

Eddie won't talk to him during class, but he silently slides a granola bar across their table to Richie. He must have realized Richie rushed without breakfast, the thoughtful asshole. How is Richie supposed to not love him like crazy when he does shit like that?

He gives him a small smile and sneaks the granola bar the rest of the way across the table. Before he can open it, a sharp pain twinges in the back of his mouth. He pokes at it with his tongue, thinking the wire of his braces jabbed him in the cheek, but there's no wire there, so he sticks a finger in his mouth to try and find the cause. 

Gently, he presses down on his gums near and the pain flares up again. "Fuck." He hisses under his breath. Eddie gives him a side eye, but Richie shrugs him off. It's probably nothing. He can just ask his dad after school. 

But then he presses on his back tooth and it  _ wiggles _ . It absolutely should not fucking do that. He's got all his adult teeth and he brushes three times a day, why the fuck would his tooth be loose? That's so fucking  _ weird. _

This whole day is  _ so fucking weird _ . Fuck Mondays, right? 

Another sharp pain. This time it comes from the other side of his mouth and he winces. Maybe he should go to the nurse? He pokes that back tooth with his finger and— 

That can't be right. Teeth don't just get that loose that fast, especially without him noticing. What the fuck?

His whole mouth erupts with pain and he drops his forehead down onto the desk to keep from worrying Eddie with the grimace on his face. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the fire pinpricks of pain all along his gum line, but it doesn't help. Tears well up in his eyes. Holy shit, it really fucking hurts. Is this some kind of braces thing his dad didn't prepare him for? Christ on a cracker, it sucks dick. 

He goes to poke at his braces, as if that might give him an answer, but instead of the cold metal wire, his finger bumps his front tooth. Where did his fucking braces go?  _ Fuck _ this Monday, where the fuck are his braces? He presses against his tooth, like maybe he's momentarily lost sanity or sense of touch or something because  _ braces don't just fucking disappear _ and he feels the pressure, then a spike of pain, then— 

Holy fuck, then he keeps pressing and there's barely any resistance and he keeps pressing and then it keeps going backward and  _ he keeps pressing and _ — 

_ Squelch _ .

There's a sickeningly wet noise, like someone trying to wrench their shoe out of the mud as it greedily sucks it down, and then there's no resistance anymore because there's not a  _ tooth there anymore _ . It's fallen out into his fucking lap. He stares down out at, eyes wide and his heart rate steadily climbing the longer he sits there. He can barely recognize it as his own with the way it’s black and rotted through, like some kind of old pirate’s tooth or— 

_ A leper’s tooth.  _

That thought rips a terrified shudder out of him, but he can’t place why. With a shaky hand, he picks it up between his forefinger and his thumb to bring it closer to his face, but drops it again when he's hit with another wave of agonizing pain in his mouth. It slams into him with such force, making him groan out loud. He sneaks a look over at Eddie, but he's still looking forward like he didn't even hear him. 

The sight of the rotten tooth sitting in his lap and the overwhelming pain are too much. He can feel bile rising up in his throat, burning, but he swallows it down and tries to ignore the goosebumps covering his skin. This whole fucking day hasn't made any goddamn sense and he just wants to go home and ask his dad what the fuck is going on but he's stuck in fucking biology, staring at the tooth in his lap.

For some reason — morbid curiosity, maybe. Or self loathing. Both are on the table — he runs his tongue along his teeth, searching for any other loose ones. The back ones are, he already knew that, but then he pokes a canine and it's loose. His other front tooth, his molars, his premolars,  _ all _ of his teeth are loose. Loose enough to wiggle back and forth with his tongue easily.  _ What the fuck. _

His hand moves before he realizes he's doing it and it's in his mouth again, pressing down on one of his molars like that might somehow make the pain go away. It doesn't fucking work, of course; it just makes it worse. His jaw feels like its on fire, pain radiating out through his entire fucking face. He's crying now and he knows he should leave the room and he shouldn't be messing with his teeth, but he can't stop. His hands have a mind of their own; no matter how much he wants them to stop touching his teeth, they don’t listen to him. 

He moves to press another tooth down, like he might be able to press them back into their assigned seats in his gums, but the back of his hand bumps into a canine and knocks it out easily, with another wet  _ squelch _ . It makes a tiny  _ plink _ as it hits the ugly vinyl floor, then it skitters away underneath the table in front of them. Richie is frozen, staring after it, not sure what the fuck he's supposed to do anymore. 

Subconsciously, he's aware that his teeth are just falling from his gums without any help now. He spits one out into his hand, then two, then three. He holds a handful of his own disgusting rotted teeth cupped in his hands and they're vibrating, rattling against each other from how violently he's shaking now. Soon enough, he's run out of teeth in his mouth and all that's left to do is stare in horror at his hands where they now all sit.

_ And your fucking teeth can rot in your mouth. Like straight up rot. And then they’ll fall out, but not before they infect your gums and give you cancer and fucking kill you. Do you hear me, Richie? You'll  _ **_die._ **

Eddie's voice reverberates through his head, bouncing off the insides of his skull, repeating over and over and over. The longer it plays, the less it sounds like Eddie. It lowers in pitch, raspy, and manic giggles add as some fucked up background vocals to the shitty soundtrack of his fucking meltdown. It's not an unfamiliar voice though — he knows this voice. He can't pinpoint how he does, not right away, but it makes every hair on his body stand on end, his muscles all clench, his breath come quicker. Whoever it is instills such unadulterated terror in his body that his veins feel like they're pumping battery acid through them instead of blood. 

Battery acid. If it were battery acid, maybe he would be safe. Why does battery acid feel comforting? 

_ Eddie. _

What? What does Eddie have to do with fucking battery acid?

Suddenly, Richie remembers he's in class in the middle of a boring fucking biology lecture, losing all his goddamn teeth, with his best friend right next to him. Honestly, Eddie being a nerd about health is seemingly like a fucking miracle. Maybe he can tell him what the fuck is going on, why all his teeth are in his hands instead of in his mouth where they belong. 

He sits up fully, lifting his head off the desk, and starts to turn to Eddie and — and what? Blubber some noises that almost sound like words but not quite because he doesn't know how to talk without all his teeth? Shove his handful of teeth at him and hope he puts two and two together?

It doesn't matter what he was going to do though. The classroom is empty. Mr. Gardener isn't up at the front of the class, writing on the chalkboard, and Greta isn't sitting in the second row, writing notes to Marcia three seats over, and Paul isn't sleeping on the front row like the douche he is. Weird, but really, he doesn't care about them anyway. 

But when he looks to his right, Eddie isn't sitting there. Someone else is. Someone with grey, baggy clothes with three red pom poms on the front — a clown outfit? His face is painted white with some weird red lines down it and his hair is a bright shock of orange starting way too up on his too big head. 

All at once, it feels like someone has dumped a bucket of ice water over his head and all his nerves are firing rapidly, screaming for his body to do something. His instincts are screaming  _ run run run idiot get out of there danger danger danger _ . 

He doesn't know why this clown struck such immediate fear in him, but he knows he needs to get the fuck out of there right now. Before he can get up, the clown leans in close and can't do anything but lean further away. He — no. Not he.  _ It.  _

_ It _ smells like rotting meat and blood, which makes Richie gag. It's smiling wide, then wider as It gets closer, close enough for drool from It's mouth to drop into the pile of teeth in Richie's hands. 

It opens Its mouth to speak, but he finds his voice first. "No. No no no no no no no." 

That seems like the wrong thing to say though because It laughs gleefully at this. "Oh yes, Richie, yes yes yes yes yes yes." It's grin is malicious and now there's only inches between their faces. "This is your fault. You're such a bad boy, you know that? All those dirty things you thought about Eds—” he can't hold back anymore and he vomits into his lap at the nickname he gave his best friend, "— you deserve this. If he found out, he would've knocked all your teeth out anyway. It's better this way, Trashmouth. Take it from me, kid." He's crying now, blubbering nonsense words that almost sound like pleas for his safety. They're coming out of his mouth too fast and garbled from his lack of teeth though. It laughs at this too. "Don't worry though. I still have all of mine." 

And then It opens Its mouth. Just like Its smile, it starts wide, then gets wider and wider until it's like a snake's mouth, jaw unhinging and everything. The light glints off rows upon rows of jagged glass sharp teeth. Somehow, the maniac laughter starts up again, even with Its mouth open that wide, as It grabs his shoulders and holds him in place. Then It takes a bite and— 

Richie bolts upright in his bed, panting hard. He's covered in a layer of sweat; the hair on his collar is soaked and stuck to the back of his neck. His hands are shaking and when he presses them to his face, they come back wet. He realizes he's crying. He's whimpering and shuddering and he can't stop, not even when he wraps his arms around his body to hold himself together. 

The dream is fading already. Most of his dreams do. Don't everyone's? But it doesn't matter. He doesn't need to remember what happened in the dream to remember the absolute sheer terror that he felt, is still feeling now. 

Sobs wrack his body and it's suddenly too much effort to stay upright, so he flops weakly to his side. Grabbing his pillow, he wraps his arms around it and squeezes it close. He wishes it weren't a pillow and someone was actually hugging him. He wishes it was Eddie. 

But that thought awake is almost as terrifying as all his teeth falling out and whatever else happened in his nightmare, so he pushes it away and focuses on something else, anything else. He stares at the corner of his Pink Floyd poster until it's no longer blurry from the tears in his eyes, then rolls over to check his alarm clock.  **_3:26_ ** . Fuck if he'll be able to sleep after that though, so he gets up. 

He's not sure what he intended to do at first, but he ends up in the bathroom, staring at his reflection warily. There's no gigantic zit on his lip like in his dream, which is nice, but there is one cropping up on his nose like some kind of sick joke. He already knows his teeth are there in his mouth, underneath the wire of his braces, from running his tongue over them every few seconds since he woke up, but it doesn't feel real until he pulls his lips back to see them in the mirror. They're all there — his front two teeth are still too big for the rest of his fucking mouth, his right top canine is still too far forward, two of his bottom incisors overlapping just a bit still in the front, the ugly orange and green bands of his braces still trying to force them all where they belong. 

Relief hits him like a Mack truck and he lets out a shuddering sigh, closing his eyes and hanging his head down. He has to brace himself against the counter, white knuckling it to anchor himself to this spot, but now that his eyes aren't on his teeth again, the panic makes his heart hammer in his chest. His head snaps back to look at his reflection again, this time cautiously reaching up to poke at a tooth. There's no pain, no wiggle, just metal against his finger like it should be. 

He stays there for a few minutes, poking each tooth in turn just to be sure. Once he's satisfied that they're all there where they should be and nothing weird is going on, he marches himself back to his bed and lays down.  **_3:59_ ** . If he goes to sleep now, he should be able to get another three ish hours of sleep before he has to wake up for school in the morning. He doesn't want to sleep, but also school is bad enough on its own without sleep deprivation adding to the problem. 

Man, fuck Mondays. 

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on Tumblr at [SRaye96](https://sraye96.tumblr.com/) or on twitter at [Raye96s](https://twitter.com/Raye96S)


End file.
